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I'm back again, as you can see! Happy Saint Patrick's Day!​ I had to do a lot of editing and proofreading to get Scratched -- my short story based off of Beauty and the Beast -- to my liking (Thanks in advance to those who have assisted me in proofreading Scratched in it;'s entirety for you guys). I if I was being honest, here, I'd say it's not exactly to my liking, but it's March 17th, so... I have to learn the meaning of "deadline" sometime!Fair warning: I used the Brother's Grimm version to get the right feel for Scratched, but based the plot off of the Disney film.Now, about the story again: for the rest of Scratched, as you only have the first, oh, 17 pages here, subscribe to our ST&SI newsletter come the beginning of April for the link to the rest! If you are already a subscriber, go and hunt up our last newsletter from your inbox, and follow the link down at the bottom to get the rest of this story once you're done here!I hope you enjoy my version of Beauty and the Beast, and don't forget that it is one of three parts; the ending may surprise you, once you get over to the Extra Content blog!May this Tale be the Prologue to many more to come!-Little Lion

<<<>>>Not for the last time, I draw in a deep breath as I let go of the gable, and skid down the roof, racing the rain as it pours down on the castle. I lift my chin up, the overpowering coppery taste of blood from biting my tongue flooding my mouth. Thunder rumbles, and lightning flashes across the sky. I internally brace myself for the moment when I run out of the rough, hard roof tiles. Even though I've done this hundreds of times before, my heart still races as I free fall through the air, plummeting through the falling rain or snow. I bang first my knees, and then my elbows against the end of the roof line, the metal scraping my skin through my clothes.Here we go. The wind whistles in my ears as I pick up speed, the ice cold rain now stinging my face. I begin to count the seconds. One. Two. Three. The smooth darkness of the freezing lake below me, at the bottom of the cliff, has never scared me, but the impact is something you don't easily forget, especially when you slam into it every single day. Four. Five. Six. I close my eyes, and wrap my arms solidly around my waist, to the point where they almost hurt as they dig into me. I shut my mouth, pressing my lips together. I hold my breath as I break the surface, and plunge into the icy cold water, the temps causing me to seize up. It almost draws the air out of my lungs. Before my cloak can drag me down into the depths, I swim toward the surface, and draw in a lungfull of frigid winter air. At the beginning, and ever since, it's been winter. Snow, glittering ice, freezing temperatures, frozen hands and feet. It doesn't grow on you, believe me. I should know, for it's all I can remember. "Thomas! Get out of the water! You can't stay in there-your feet will be blocks of ice on the way back to the village!” I sigh, and swim toward the shore with that reminder. The strong, calloused hand that pulls me out of the water almost throws me over their shoulder. "I'll remember next time, I swear I will, mate." The glimmering, mischievous brown eyes tell a different story. "We'll see about that." I shiver, and wipe the water streaming from my hair with a soaked sleeve. A drip escapes, sliding down my face, and he throws his dry cloak over me. I draw it close, nodding my thanks, and we set off to see the rest of the story. It plays out as usual, and once the last line has been spoken, and the last action completed, everyone visibly relaxes. Our jobs are done, at least for today. I rub my hands together, fuitily trying to keep them from stiffening up. Sean stands on tiptoe, searching for someone in particular, as I do the same. Sean isn't hard to miss, not when he towers above three quarters of the village. "James!" I instinctively jump away from Sean as his voice cuts across the clamour, and he laughs, a familiar boom that resonates in my ears. Years of hearing it relaxes me. From among the sea of villagers packed into the square, James' head appears as he shoulders through the crowd, nodding and smiling at the congratulations they heap on him. He's careless, graceful, and loose. He spots Sean, and changes direction, now heading straight toward us. No matter how self-absorbed James is, and no matter how he treats me, he always makes sure I make it back to the square. In this story, we look out for each other, even if you are sworn enemies on and off of the book. He grins, cheekily, and strolls over, pausing only to let a few neighbors pass in front of him. "See you made it, like always, Aarons. Not too banged up, I hope?" "A few scrapes. Nice to know you walked down the stairs, like always, James." The same banter, every day, with a few changes to keep each other on our toes. I chuckle, like always, and his eyes flash, with barely restrained anger. "You just take the shortcut, and I'll take the scenic route. Cecily prefers it, don’t you know." With that gibe, he mock bows, and turns around, seamlessly melting into the stream of people once more. Sean claps me on the shoulder, sending tingles across my skin. "Let's get you out of these wet clothes, before you freeze to death.” Ever the voice of reason. I agree, and we slowly head to his family's home, near the outskirts of the village, where Sean drags a spare trunk out from the wall niche it's stored in. He pulls out an exact match to the set of clothes I'm wearing, except the fact that they are dry. Brown tunic, black trousers, black belt. "Thank you, Sean." "Get changed. All the food's going to be stone cold before we get there." I shake my head at his exaggeration, and change, grabbing my spare cloak from the pegs beside the door. We pull our hoods over our heads before plowing through the snow to get to Maurice's, the only tavern for miles around that's halfway decent. And the only place to get a hot meal after we've all played our roles, unless you want to cook it yourself. I push open the wooden door, and cringe at the creaky hinges. Not that it matters, for the noise coming from the crowd inside completely drowns it out. A wave of heat, from the fire and the packed bodies inside, hits us, and I look for the owner- he’s already behind the bar, early for tonight’s crowd. The patrons are already drunk, and a fellow raises his tankard as his tablemates cheer. Maurice bellows at us over the din. "Your regular is at your table, boys! Pay me tomorrow, yea?" Sean cups his hands around his mouth to yell back, "Only if I remember!" "In that case, I'd better add it to your tab, then!" He throws his head back and laughs, cheeks red, and turns to the short, stocky man impatiently waiting with a empty tankard. We shove through the familiar faces to get to our food, still hot, and miraculously untouched. "Looks like Finn hasn't gotten here yet." Sean gestures at the bowls in front of our usual spots. I nod, pull out my chair from the worn table, and dig into my stew. The potatoes burn the roof of my mouth, but the warmth they give me is worth a sore mouth tonight. A mellow, but loud, woman's voice rises above Maurice's, and we glance at each other before continuing to eat. Abigail, Maurice's wife, is the only one who can top him in volume. She swirls up to the table, red cheeked from the oven, and gives us a warm smile as she drops two wooden trenchers on our table, the loaves of fresh bread they hold still piping hot. "Thanks, Abigail. Excellent stew, as usual." She waves the compliment off. "Ah, you charmer. Eat, now, before that other one gets here. He'll snatch it right out of your hands, he will!" She leaves as we heed her warning, shoveling in our mouths potatoes and meat on top of the soft crusty bread. The door opens, a gust of icy air cutting through the heat. Abigail's prediction comes true, as Finn throws back his hood, and shakes the snow off his shoulders. With a smile, he maneuvers over to our table, and pulls out the third chair. "Did James push you today? You seemed to fall faster than normal." "How did you see? You were supposed to be inside, with your mum." He deftly takes the rest of Sean's bread from his trencher, and replies, "I was inside, just where I was supposed to be." Around a last mouthful of stew, Sean ribs, "Then how did you find out, Chippy?" Finn's eyes glimmer, and I swat his hand away from the rest of my bread. He pretends to be offended. "Cecily filled me in. After all, she saw the whole thing, like she does every day. She said James seemed a smidge too aggressive towards you today, that's all." I shake my head. "I dropped off on my own accord, just like every day. James never pushes me off, and you know it." Finn raises an eyebrow, and shrugs. "I know it, so I pretended not to. I'm fantastic at it, as we all know. And, you'll want me to stop talking about James, so I end up getting your bread in the end." Defeated, I push the trencher toward him, finishing off the last bite of my stew. I roll my eyes as he stuffs my bread into his mouth, and verbally deny his remark, to get him to laugh. Some days, it's just about the only thing that can make me feel better. "I never thought that you, of all people, would only pretend to be daft, Finn. Honestly. You're just a con man, plain and simple." "And you're a stable hand." No laugh, but a mischievous smile. "Sean's a blacksmith," I counter. "And James is a merchant." Finn smirks. "Cecily's a seamstress," Sean adds "What's that got to do with this?" Finn shoots him a look, and I smile, noting it's the first since this morning. Sean shrugs in turn. "I thought we were naming our occupations here." "No, I was teasing Thomas. He needs to be put back in his place."With that, I decide I've waited here long enough. I scoot back my chair. "Keep telling yourself that. I have work to do before the story starts itself over again. And I think I hear your mum calling." I allow myself another grin as he frowns. "That's a sore point, and you know it." Sean punches him, lightly. "Be grateful you've got one. She's a gem." He pushes past him, and I follow my tall friend through a pack of townsmen crowded around the fire, drying their cloaks and boots. I barely hear Finn leap up, and, from the amount of noise added to the din, almost fall onto the man behind him. I laugh under my breath. Sean and I split off, and I skirt around more jam packed tables to reach the bar, where Maurice, feeling generous, tells me to keep my coin for tonight. I pay him a week in advance tomorrow, for my meals, and for my place to be open when I come in. I try to tip him or Abigail every couple of days, if I can get it past them. I thank Maurice, and pull my cowl up, meeting my mates at the door. The wind has picked up since we've been inside, although the rain has lessened. Icy fingertips trail across my cheek, and I burrow deeper into my thin cloak. "Are you heading to the stables?" Sean already knows the answer. I don't know why he bothers to ask. I repress a sigh. "Tell me, where else would I go?" "You could come with me. I could wait for you while you feed the horses." "You have to finish that blade for Coelum. He's paying for it tomorrow morning, correct? So it's better if I stay out of your way, then, and you stay out of mine." "You're never in the way, Thomas. You know my door is always open, even if John's isn't." "Why would John's door ever be open to me? I'm the invisible man who takes care of his horses for a measly weekly pay." "John only uses his horse to prance around after James lets him go." Sean remarks. "At least Cecily remembers to pay Thom. The other two treat him like mud under their boots. They treat everyone like that," he grins at me, knowing the feeling. "Otherwise, he'd be just like me: broke." Finn laughs at his smart remark, unthinkingly. "You're not penniless, Finn. You don't save the money Ira gives you very well, mate." I rub my hands together as they start to tingle. "Hmm. She never gives me anything more than a few coins to spend." "Enough. Stop your whining, Finn, before Thomas smacks it out of you," Sean warns. "My hands are too cold to move, let alone smack you. I forgot my gloves in the woods." "What am I going to do with you, Thomas? That's the third time this week." Our conversation comes to a halt as we reach the town square, and Sean shakes my hand by way of goodbye, for he won't see me until I slide down the roof tomorrow, and he pulls me out of the lake. Finn walks away, without a backward glance, into the row of houses. I won't see him until the mob scene tomorrow. He doesn't like goodbyes, for we see each other every day, like clockwork. Sean and I head our separate ways, me to the Bellaros stable, and him to his father's blacksmith shop. The wind tries to blow me backwards, as if telling me to stay away from the stables. Except, I can't shirk my work, because what little coin I get, I live on. If I don't muck out the stalls or forget to polish the tack, Cecily would understand, but I'm more worried about what John might do if I don't. I grunt with the effort of opening the stable door, a solid, thick oak, and smile in spite of myself as the half dozen horses tell me hello, some quicker than others. They know who truly takes care of them. "Be patient. You'll get your dinner soon enough." I haul out a bag of oats from a storage room, and measure out a variety of amounts; each horse gets it’s own ratio of oats to hay. It's been a hard day for them, and I would venture that Cecily would like them to have a treat. The hay I fork into their mangers disappears sooner than I'd like it to, but I don't give them extra, no matter how much they butt their heads against me when I break the film of ice over the water bucket, and fill their respective ones. "Shouldn't you be asleep?" I turn from Shadow's stall, and reply, "Shouldn't you be? It's been quite a day." Cecily smiles as she pushes back her cloak, and shakes the snow off her dress. The lamplight casts a golden glow over her, and the discarded snow on the floorboards glimmers. "It's not out of the ordinary for me to be up this late. Besides, I had other things on my mind. I need to give you your week's pay, since my father and sisters don't remember we have help outside the house." "It could have waited until tomorrow." I turn back to Shadow as she pushes me with her nose, and stroke her until she calms down again. Cecily comes up beside me, and leans on the adjacent empty stall door. "I doubt it could. You pay Maurice tomorrow, for example." "And how, exactly, do you know that?" I raise an eyebrow, and Shadow huffs at me. She smiles. "Every week it's the same. Everything's always the same, in Grimmdale." "Not everything." I lean over, shoulder the sack of oats by my feet, push open the storage room door, and drop it onto the dark floor. When I turn around, Cecily is there, a small bag in her hand. "Your pay." She holds it out to me, her face in shadow. The lamplight doesn't shine here, and I find myself backing up a step. "That's not my pay. It looks like a small fortune, Cecily. I won't take it." "You can, and you will, Thomas. I'd rather you take it, and buy a new cloak, or a solid pair of boots, than have father waste it in another unprosperous deal with another scoundrel of a merchant. My sisters would just splurge on more pearls or another dress that they won't wear. And me-" she scoffs, "-I have more than enough to fulfill my needs." She steps back, one step, two, three, until she reaches the light again. "Please, Thomas. Take it." I clear the doorway, and, hesitating to reply, pull the door closed behind me. My heart is telling me it’s not right. I shake my head. "No, Cecily. I'll take my pay, my normal amount, but not anything more. It wouldn't be right." "Why wouldn't it?" I don't answer. "Why not, Thomas? Why won't you accept this?" She throws up her hands, irritated. "Cecily-" "Here." She thrusts the bag into my hands, turns, and, picking up her skirts, runs out of the stable. The door bangs behind her in the wind. "Cecily! Stop!" I run after her, almost running into the massive wooden door, but slide to a stop in the snow just outside. She's reached the end of the row of houses, and I stop myself from running after her. It would be wrong to chase after her, even if she is my friend, for I don’t know who's watching. At least, as much as an employer and employee can be friends. I look down at the coins, heavy in my hands, and force myself to swallow. An uneasy feeling rises in the pit of my stomach, and I walk back inside, to finish up for the night. I extinguish two of the lamps, and pull myself up the ladder to the partially enclosed loft, my boots futilely attempting to climb on the empty air from several missing rungs. My wounds throb sharply, reminding me that I've neglected them. I grimace into the dark. I fumble to light the single candle on the table, missing the wick because I can't see. It takes three matches, and I shake my hand as my fingertips get slightly burned. I roll up my sleeves, and wince as my fingers probe the deep scratch on one of my forearms, causing it to start bleeding again. My common sense halts me before I start walking to my dresser. Before I can wash it, I need bandages to dress the wounds. I flip open the lid of my trunk, and scavenge around for the bandages in the corner. My fingers bump into my mother's box, and I pause, desperately wanting to draw it out after the day I've had. A ghostly scent of lavender fills the air, and I can almost convince myself I smell it, even though it’s only in memory. I shake my head at myself, wondering why I even thought about taking it out. Only if I need to remind myself of what I live for do I bring it out from under the other things nestled on top of it. I resume looking for the bandages, and find them under a threadbare blanket. I get them out, and as gently as I can, shut the lid. The old floorboards groan under my feet as I cross to the small dresser, where I set down the bandages and the candle before breaking the film over my basin of water. I dip a clean rag into it, shiver as I dab at my forearm with the icy water, and attempt to keep the blood from dripping off my elbow into the basin. I wrap the arm, clean a knee and the other arm, and secure the ends of the bandages. Hopefully, they will stay on, no matter how threadbare and worn from reuse. If not, it means I have to wash the cloth and slide down the roof without any protection tomorrow while they dry. A draft blows through the room, ruffling my hair slightly, and sending a chill down my spine. Strange. I thought I had shut the doors on the main floor before I came up. I walk to the door, sticking my head out to see the doors down below. In the shadows, I can't make out the dim figure slowly crossing the barn floor, but they had enough sense to shut the door behind them. I creep back to the dresser, watching for the creaky boards, and take the dagger I have setting on top, next to the pitcher and basin. I crouch down, my knees protesting, and make my way to the edge of the open part of the loft, a warning bell chiming in the back of my mind. I clutch the dagger, and glance over the edge. A creak. The floorboards. Almost under me, and to my left. I move to the top of the ladder, and peer down. The single lamp I kept burning doesn't cast any light on whoever's at the bottom, and the rungs of the ladder grow darker as someone grabs hold. "Who's there?" I rise to my feet as I wait for an answer, and force myself to stand still. The floor creaking under me would not help me now, only give away my position, if my voice hasn’t already. "It's only me, Thomas. Don't fall down the ladder."<<<>>> The tension leave my shoulders as I recognize the voice. "Did you have to sneak in here without any warning? I could have killed you." Cecily reaches the top of the ladder, and I politely extend a hand to help her stand. "I thought you might be asleep, Thomas. I-I just couldn't leave things as they were between us, and came to apologize. Forgive me, please." "Always." She spots the knife in my other hand. I fruitily move it behind my back, but she shakes her head, and I let my arm drop to my side. "Thomas, really!" "You can never be too careful. Especially when people sneak into barns at night." "Point taken." She takes a moment to look at me, at my rolled up sleeves, one trouser leg up past my knee, and the bandages plainly in sight on my arms. "Did you get injured? How? Where?" She grabs my wrist, and I pull back, but she doesn't let go. "This is from the roof, isn't it? I told James to fix that edge!" "I'm all right, truly, Cecily." I attempt to pull away again, and she lets me go. "I've got to clean this up before I bleed all over the floor. Will you come in?" She follows me back into my room, and I resume cleaning my knee. She stops me, and after a minute of holding on, she tugs the cloth from my hand. "Let me finish, Cecily." I move to stand, and she tries to stop me. "Please, let me do it for you. I know you are perfectly capable of doing so, but I want to do this. Stop!" I sit back down, and she lays a hand on my knee to keep it still. I bite my lip as she briskly cleans the wound out, for this one is deeper than the rest, but quickly stop as she looks up at me, her eyes pinpointing on my face. Maybe she didn't see. I look away, and she lightly hits my leg, in jest. "Don't pretend you didn't bite your lip. I saw. I know it hurts, and I'm sorry for it. It's partially my fault, after all. Maybe we can get someone to push that detailing back before you get to the castle tomorrow. Heaven knows James won’t do anything about it, but I'll pass it on to the staff." She tightly wraps my knee, and gently pulls my trousers back down, thoughtfully fingering the worn, ragged hem. I grab her hands before she can roll down my sleeves. That much I can do myself. I make her look at me. "Why did you run away from me today?" "Why did you tend to the horses before yourself?" I don't answer, and neither does she. "You ate at the tavern, correct?" "Aye. Abigail had our stew waiting for us. She never forgets." Cecily draws away, and places the rest of my bandages on my dresser. She turns around, and leans back against the dresser. "That's-that's brilliant, eating at the tavern. At least you don't have to sit at a table with James because he insists your entire family dines with his as a group. James eats enough for three at supper, and I can barely watch as he shoves bite after bite into his mouth, heedless of the crumbs that fall. It's not pretty." She laughs halfheartedly as I stand up, and carefully unroll my sleeves. "That's James. He eats enough for a beast, a man, and me all at once." She laughs once again, and this time, it's genuine. "You always do know what to say. I wish-" she stops, and I motion for her to keep going. "A few times, I just wish, that you could switch roles with James. He's got the easier one, that's for certain. If he could just experience what you have to go through-" "Don't ever say that. We've had our roles assigned to us since-" "Since before you can remember. I know. But if it could happen, James might see why he should respect you, instead of-" "No. He will never see me as his equal. Never." I wince as Cecily grabs my elbows, a fierce look in her eye. "Why not?" "It isn't meant to be, Cecily. He's a prince, both in and out of the story. I'm a pauper, whether you like it or not." She grips my elbows harder, and against my will my eyes start to tear up from the pain. "That doesn't mean you can't be friends." "That's pushing the line." "That doesn't mean you can't be acquaintances." "He hates me. I wouldn't call that an acquaintance." "He doesn't hate you!" "Really? I beg to differ. We're already enemies for life. " "Thomas! He doesn't hate you! I think he's jealous, plain and simple! There, I said it!" I wrench away, her grip becoming too much for me to handle. "Why would James be jealous of me? He's got everything he could ever want for: he's a merchant's son, a merchant himself, and he gets to keep the heroine he rescues from me every day!" She raises her eyebrows, her eyes bright."Do you want to know what I think of James, Thomas?” I nod, and slide a step forward, wary that she’ll grab my arms again. “Yes. Yes, I certainly do.” Her words grow sharp, and she’s almost spitting by the time she’s finished berating him. “He's annoying, and shallow, and majorly self absorbed! I tolerate him during the story, but afterwards, he's insufferable. He needs to stop looking at himself in the mirror and thinking he isn't flawed. It's utterly unbelievable that-" "Stop, please, Cecily. Stop. You're making my head hurt with all of this-this chatter of yours." I rub my eyes, and wearily reopen them. To her credit, she closes her mouth, pressing her lips together so tight I think she might not ever utter another word. She sighs, and as I reach up to unclasp my cloak, she darts forward and hugs me, her arms tightly surrounding me. "I'm not sure I can breathe, Cecily." She laughs, and I hesitantly chuckle a few seconds later. "You're too thin." "Leave off me for a minute. What about you? How are you faring? You don't want your money back? It's right there, on the table." "Keep it. I told you before I don't need it, and neither does my family. I was upset earlier because you had this, this look on your face, like you wouldn't take the money even if I had fired you right on the spot. It got me thinking about how you don't take charity, as many of us don't in this town. We work it off if we have a debt owed, until we pay it." "Does this never end?" I jokingly roll my eyes. "Ah, it will. Hear me out. “Thomas, you worry about everyone but yourself. I've been on the receiving end of that, as has Sean and Finn. Don't deny it. Even if both you and they won't admit to it, you help each other. You can't tell me that all of it doesn't go both ways." She gives me another tight hug, and steps away. "At the end of the day, I fall into bed, thinking, 'Whoever put us here, performing this day after day, must have a reason.' I haven't quite figured it out yet, but I promise you, when I do, you'll be the first to know." "I think you, of all people, will figure it out." I smile, and a glint comes into her eye. "Even though I love it when you smile, you look exhausted. I hope you sleep tonight, Thomas." She shakes her head as I shake mine, her in empathy, me in denial. "Cecily, don't worry about me. I'll be fine." "We'll see about that. Don't forget, Thomas, that at the end of the story, it's I who saves James. However he may think he saves me, I save myself. Keep that in mind, tomorrow, while we’re in the village at the end of the story." I allow a moment of silence to hang between us, for I don't know how to respond to that. "Would you like me to walk you home?" "I think I will pass, but thank you for the kind offer. I can take care of myself. I got here safely, didn't I?" She tugs on her gloves, and I walk with her to the ladder. "Good night." "I'll see you in the village." She climbs down, thumping the ladder so I know she's reached the floor, and leaves, the icy gust of wind that blows through extinguishing my candle for me. I fall into my bed, and pull the threadbare blankets up, falling asleep after another hour of staring at the ceiling, thinking things over and rubbing my arm.<<<>>>The tug, the pull, wakes me up far sooner than I'd like it to. I grumble to myself, and swing out of bed, pushing my feet farther into my boots. I slept fully clothed, and I take the time I'd normally spend switching clothes to stretch my arms above my head, waking my muscles up. I stop as the story pulls me towards the ladder. I painfully climb down, harnessing John's horse and double checking the girths before leading it out of the barn. In the brisk morning air, I lead the horse on foot to John's house, and tether him to the hitching post set outside. I catch motion out of the corner of my eye, and turn to see Cecily framed in her bedroom window. She smiles when she sees I've looked up, and waves to me. I wave back, shaking my head all the while as I look away. She shouldn't be up for two more hours, at the least. I trudge alone through the streets, my feet crunching through leftover snow from the previous day. They're quite empty, except for a few weary faces greeting the dawn with me. I leave the village behind, and start navigating the woods, the mostly dead undergrowth forcing me to kick through a great deal of it to reach the bigger trees, which have more space between them. The pull of the story breaks away from me, and I stop in the middle of two thick trunks. The sunlight falls lazily through the trees, most of them missing their leaves, which are buried under the snow I'm standing on. I draw in a deep breath, and it tickles my nose. My breath spirals away from me in a cloud of white. I take a few more, and I continue to the clearing I leave my bow and arrows in. Though I discard them inside the castle, they somehow appear here every morn. For some reason, my gloves don't follow suit. When I forget them, I have to wait until the next day to fetch them again, and my red, chapped hands pay for it. I find my gloves right where I left them: next to the hollow oak with my bow and quiver. I gratefully pull them on, and reach for my quiver, sliding the strap over my shoulder, and the bow over my opposite. I pull an old blanket out of the tree, and dust off the dirt under the oak. I settle in to wait until the story calls for me again. From what Sean and Finn have hinted at, I can guess that there was more to our story before...what happens every day. Apparently, there was two more days worth of the story, instead of the one day we are all stuck repeating. Except I can't remember any of it. For the life of me, I can't remember any detail of it. I've tried, lost many valuable hours of sleep over it, but I can't remember. I shiver as I lean up against the tree, and stare at the grey sky above, interrupted by a few darker clouds. A prelude to the rain that's to come. When it starts pouring down, it's all I can do to stay in character and rally the townspeople. If I didn't have the story guiding me with what to say, I'd tell them all to go home and get dry. I doze on and off, the river of sleep pulling me under more than I'd like it to, until it's almost dusk. The story is preparing to pull me through the woods, back to the village, and on to the castle. I stand, my back and legs aching, and store the blanket in the oak. The clouds have drawn together, dark and menacing, into a blanket. I stretch - just in time, for the guiding tug is back, and has a deep hold on me. I start to jog, silently hating every jarring step. My knees are already killing me. I dodge a few fallen trees, and leap over a dry stream bed, crashing into the foliage on the other side. The snow has soaked my trousers from the knee down, and my feet are numb, except for the tingles from slamming each foot down as I speed up into a run. The wavering gold of torches from the village flash through the trees, and I turn, making my way towards them. The tug doesn't subside as I draw closer. I frown as the sun leaves, dipping beneath the horizon. The temperature starts to drop. I lean over my knees, panting, as the pull of the story releases me, for I can't start until everyone required is here. I push through the crowd gathered in the square, and attempt to catch my breath. I'm silently thanking whoever is trying to tarry, or were farther away than the story wanted them to be when it called. I scan the crowd, acknowledging Finn with a brief nod, and realize who is missing. Cecily. John Bellaros is impatiently tapping his toe, standing next to his horse. It huffs, as impatient as his master at the moment. I pace in the center of the square. I hope nothing has happened, to her or anyone else. I force myself to stop pacing, and I rub my hands together, grateful for my gloves tonight. At the edge of the crowd, people start to move, and Cecily pushes through, to stand in her place beside her father. The story clutches me again, and I accuse her of falling in love with the beast, all the while scaring the villagers with a tale so grim, so dark, I almost get lost in the words. I'm supposed to be angry, but the feeling isn't right. It doesn't settle into my bones- it just stays as a veil over my features, contorting my face and body. I act empathetic, and fearful along with the villagers. Emotions that I don't feel, but am supposed to project nonetheless, with or without the story's help. Thunder rumbles overhead, vibrating inside of me. The first drops land on the stone under my feet. It steadily increases into a drizzle, then a downpour. With icy drops stinging my face, I rally the townspeople into a mass, and start toward the castle, detouring into the woods to make battering rams. I borrow an axe from a willing hand, and the story forces me to almost single-handedly chop down a massive oak, only pausing when another two step in and finish the job. I wipe my forehead, and return the axe to its owner before bellowing that we have to kill the beast, before he kills us. The rain has already soaked me to the skin, and I shiver, despite all of the physical action. I cough, and gasp to get my breath back as my heart pounds. Finn comes up behind me, and drags me over to a tree trunk, lining up next to me as a group of us lift it. If he didn't take the initiative by pulling me over next to him, he and I would be separated by the story. Finn doesn't like when it happens as such, and, because of his actions, it rarely does. My knees ache and my forearms burn as I help carry the trunk, soon to become a battering ram. My group leads the charge up the hill, to the thick, tall wrought iron and steel gates. The lock gives way after half a dozen blows. I peer up to the lighted windows set in the dark, grim stone, the rain distorting it into a towering shadow; The front doors open, revealing invisible spirits carrying anything and everything they can use as a weapon. The doors slam shut behind the spirits with an ominous clang. As the villagers set down our tree trunk, I pull out my bow, nocking my first arrow. Somehow, I'm at the front of the townspeople, and I take in a steadying breath before bringing the bow up, and drawing back the shaft. As the villagers fan out behind me, only one tree trunk still aloft, the servants fan out to defend their castle. The invisible voices cry out, and we match them in clamour as I aim and shoot my arrow, knocking one to the ground. I am worried every day that the people I hit may never rise again, but everyone is whole, uninjured by my arrows, after the story ends. The villagers push forward, and I follow Finn through the fray, drawing and releasing in one breath as another servant tries to throw Finn over my head. "Thanks," he tosses over his shoulder. "Don't thank me yet. Look out!" He turns back around, narrowly missing the glittering sword blade sweeping down at his head. He parries, and yells for me to go around him, so the battle can end. The moment my boots touch the stone steps, the battle ends, the story continues, and the servants fade into the castle to let the villagers advance. But for every step I take, I'm forced back one to give myself room to shoot, and another to avoid the servant's makeshift weapon. Behind Finn once more, together we attempt to clear a path to the doors. It's mostly clear in a few rare sequential moments, and he looks at me, as if saying You aren’t going to get a better opportunity. I slide my bow into my half empty quiver, and pull out my dagger. I dart from one empty space to another, kicking away a hand at my ankle, and use the pommel of my dagger to knock someone out of my way. I sense more than see someone barreling toward me from the left, intent on taking me down. I leap, and as they collide with my legs, I strain with the rest of my body to get my fingers to touch the steps. My fingertips scrape the stone, and a second later, the weight lifts off of my legs. I exhale, and push myself up, a few drops of blood dripping from my chin down onto the steps. I grazed it, I suspect. Finn lays a steady hand on my shoulder, and pulls me up. "Ready for what comes next?" "No. Not even close. I'll see you at the tavern?" "Aye. And this time, I won't take your bread." I grin, but quickly stop as my chin pulses and stings. "You didn't take it. I gave it." "Either way, it's yours. Lead on." I climb the steps, and let the battering ram through. It takes several solid thumps to break the doors open, and the story compels me to order the rest to leave the beast to me. I gaze up at the ornate, but gloomy, ceiling, and wonder what type of mood I'll catch James in today. I catch hold of one of the waist high banisters, and vault over it onto the stairs. My wet boots sink into the carpet. I grimace at the feeling, and take the stairs at a run. As I climb two more flights, and run down a hallway, I take off my quiver, pulling out a single arrow and my bow from the mix. It's all the story requires for me to carry, other than my dagger thrust in my belt, and I'm thankful for the minimal weight. I clutch them in one hand, and the quiver strap with the other as I use my shoulder to break through a set of double doors. I cough, my throat now sore, and have to pause to catch my breath before continuing. I locate the first of my two last staircases, and start to climb. Halfway up, the steps lose the carpeting, and I press my weight down harder on my toes to keep myself from slipping on the worn stone. My breath comes in short gasps-although I climb the multitude of stairs every day, I'm still not accustomed to it. I reach the final flight, where I ditch my quiver, and prepare to be thoroughly soaked once more. The door to the roof is now the only thing in my way. I lay a palm against the wooden door, then yank it open to meet the beast.<<<>>>t fall down the ladder."

<<<>>>Not for the last time, I draw in a deep breath as I let go of the gable, and skid down the roof, racing the rain as it pours down on the castle. I lift my chin up, the overpowering coppery taste of blood from biting my tongue flooding my mouth. Thunder rumbles, and lightning flashes across the sky. I internally brace myself for the moment when I run out of the rough, hard roof tiles. Even though I've done this hundreds of times before, my heart still races as I free fall through the air, plummeting through the falling rain or snow. I bang first my knees, and then my elbows against the end of the roof line, the metal scraping my skin through my clothes.Here we go. The wind whistles in my ears as I pick up speed, the ice cold rain now stinging my face. I begin to count the seconds. One. Two. Three.The smooth darkness of the freezing lake below me, at the bottom of the cliff, has never scared me, but the impact is something you don't easily forget, especially when you slam into it every single day. Four. Five. Six. I close my eyes, and wrap my arms solidly around my waist, to the point where they almost hurt as they dig into me. I shut my mouth, pressing my lips together.I hold my breath as I break the surface, and plunge into the icy cold water, the temps causing me to seize up. It almost draws the air out of my lungs. Before my cloak can drag me down into the depths, I swim toward the surface, and draw in a lungfull of frigid winter air. At the beginning, and ever since, it's been winter. Snow, glittering ice, freezing temperatures, frozen hands and feet. It doesn't grow on you, believe me. I should know, for it's all I can remember. "Thomas! Get out of the water! You can't stay in there-your feet will be blocks of ice on the way back to the village!” I sigh, and swim toward the shore with that reminder. The strong, calloused hand that pulls me out of the water almost throws me over their shoulder. "I'll remember next time, I swear I will, mate." The glimmering, mischievous brown eyes tell a different story. "We'll see about that." I shiver, and wipe the water streaming from my hair with a soaked sleeve. A drip escapes, sliding down my face, and he throws his dry cloak over me. I draw it close, nodding my thanks, and we set off to see the rest of the story. It plays out as usual, and once the last line has been spoken, and the last action completed, everyone visibly relaxes. Our jobs are done, at least for today. I rub my hands together, fuitily trying to keep them from stiffening up. Sean stands on tiptoe, searching for someone in particular, as I do the same. Sean isn't hard to miss, not when he towers above three quarters of the village. "James!" I instinctively jump away from Sean as his voice cuts across the clamour, and he laughs, a familiar boom that resonates in my ears. Years of hearing it relaxes me. From among the sea of villagers packed into the square, James' head appears as he shoulders through the crowd, nodding and smiling at the congratulations they heap on him. He's careless, graceful, and loose. He spots Sean, and changes direction, now heading straight toward us. No matter how self-absorbed James is, and no matter how he treats me, he always makes sure I make it back to the square. In this story, we look out for each other, even if you are sworn enemies on and off of the book. He grins, cheekily, and strolls over, pausing only to let a few neighbors pass in front of him. "See you made it, like always, Aarons. Not too banged up, I hope?" "A few scrapes. Nice to know you walked down the stairs, like always, James." The same banter, every day, with a few changes to keep each other on our toes. I chuckle, like always, and his eyes flash, with barely restrained anger. "You just take the shortcut, and I'll take the scenic route. Cecily prefers it, don’t you know." With that gibe, he mock bows, and turns around, seamlessly melting into the stream of people once more. Sean claps me on the shoulder, sending tingles across my skin. "Let's get you out of these wet clothes, before you freeze to death.” Ever the voice of reason. I agree, and we slowly head to his family's home, near the outskirts of the village, where Sean drags a spare trunk out from the wall niche it's stored in.He pulls out an exact match to the set of clothes I'm wearing, except the fact that they are dry. Brown tunic, black trousers, black belt. "Thank you, Sean." "Get changed. All the food's going to be stone cold before we get there." I shake my head at his exaggeration, and change, grabbing my spare cloak from the pegs beside the door. We pull our hoods over our heads before plowing through the snow to get to Maurice's, the only tavern for miles around that's halfway decent. And the only place to get a hot meal after we've all played our roles, unless you want to cook it yourself. I push open the wooden door, and cringe at the creaky hinges. Not that it matters, for the noise coming from the crowd inside completely drowns it out. A wave of heat, from the fire and the packed bodies inside, hits us, and I look for the owner- he’s already behind the bar, early for tonight’s crowd. The patrons are already drunk, and a fellow raises his tankard as his tablemates cheer. Maurice bellows at us over the din. "Your regular is at your table, boys! Pay me tomorrow, yea?" Sean cups his hands around his mouth to yell back, "Only if I remember!" "In that case, I'd better add it to your tab, then!" He throws his head back and laughs, cheeks red, and turns to the short, stocky man impatiently waiting with a empty tankard. We shove through the familiar faces to get to our food, still hot, and miraculously untouched. "Looks like Finn hasn't gotten here yet." Sean gestures at the bowls in front of our usual spots. I nod, pull out my chair from the worn table, and dig into my stew. The potatoes burn the roof of my mouth, but the warmth they give me is worth a sore mouth tonight. A mellow, but loud, woman's voice rises above Maurice's, and we glance at each other before continuing to eat. Abigail, Maurice's wife, is the only one who can top him in volume. She swirls up to the table, red cheeked from the oven, and gives us a warm smile as she drops two wooden trenchers on our table, the loaves of fresh bread they hold still piping hot. "Thanks, Abigail. Excellent stew, as usual." She waves the compliment off. "Ah, you charmer. Eat, now, before that other one gets here. He'll snatch it right out of your hands, he will!" She leaves as we heed her warning, shoveling in our mouths potatoes and meat on top of the soft crusty bread. The door opens, a gust of icy air cutting through the heat. Abigail's prediction comes true, as Finn throws back his hood, and shakes the snow off his shoulders. With a smile, he maneuvers over to our table, and pulls out the third chair. "Did James push you today? You seemed to fall faster than normal." "How did you see? You were supposed to be inside, with your mum." He deftly takes the rest of Sean's bread from his trencher, and replies, "I was inside, just where I was supposed to be." Around a last mouthful of stew, Sean ribs, "Then how did you find out, Chippy?" Finn's eyes glimmer, and I swat his hand away from the rest of my bread. He pretends to be offended. "Cecily filled me in. After all, she saw the whole thing, like she does every day. She said James seemed a smidge too aggressive towards you today, that's all." I shake my head. "I dropped off on my own accord, just like every day. James never pushes me off, and you know it." Finn raises an eyebrow, and shrugs. "I know it, so I pretended not to. I'm fantastic at it, as we all know. And, you'll want me to stop talking about James, so I end up getting your bread in the end." Defeated, I push the trencher toward him, finishing off the last bite of my stew. I roll my eyes as he stuffs my bread into his mouth, and verbally deny his remark, to get him to laugh. Some days, it's just about the only thing that can make me feel better. "I never thought that you, of all people, would only pretend to be daft, Finn. Honestly. You're just a con man, plain and simple." "And you're a stable hand." No laugh, but a mischievous smile. "Sean's a blacksmith," I counter. "And James is a merchant." Finn smirks. "Cecily's a seamstress," Sean adds "What's that got to do with this?" Finn shoots him a look, and I smile, noting it's the first since this morning. Sean shrugs in turn. "I thought we were naming our occupations here." "No, I was teasing Thomas. He needs to be put back in his place."With that, I decide I've waited here long enough. I scoot back my chair. "Keep telling yourself that. I have work to do before the story starts itself over again. And I think I hear your mum calling." I allow myself another grin as he frowns. "That's a sore point, and you know it." Sean punches him, lightly. "Be grateful you've got one. She's a gem." He pushes past him, and I follow my tall friend through a pack of townsmen crowded around the fire, drying their cloaks and boots. I barely hear Finn leap up, and, from the amount of noise added to the din, almost fall onto the man behind him. I laugh under my breath. Sean and I split off, and I skirt around more jam packed tables to reach the bar, where Maurice, feeling generous, tells me to keep my coin for tonight. I pay him a week in advance tomorrow, for my meals, and for my place to be open when I come in. I try to tip him or Abigail every couple of days, if I can get it past them. I thank Maurice, and pull my cowl up, meeting my mates at the door. The wind has picked up since we've been inside, although the rain has lessened. Icy fingertips trail across my cheek, and I burrow deeper into my thin cloak. "Are you heading to the stables?" Sean already knows the answer. I don't know why he bothers to ask. I repress a sigh. "Tell me, where else would I go?" "You could come with me. I could wait for you while you feed the horses." "You have to finish that blade for Coelum. He's paying for it tomorrow morning, correct? So it's better if I stay out of your way, then, and you stay out of mine." "You're never in the way, Thomas. You know my door is always open, even if John's isn't." "Why would John's door ever be open to me? I'm the invisible man who takes care of his horses for a measly weekly pay." "John only uses his horse to prance around after James lets him go." Sean remarks. "At least Cecily remembers to pay Thom. The other two treat him like mud under their boots. They treat everyone like that," he grins at me, knowing the feeling. "Otherwise, he'd be just like me: broke." Finn laughs at his smart remark, unthinkingly. "You're not penniless, Finn. You don't save the money Ira gives you very well, mate." I rub my hands together as they start to tingle. "Hmm. She never gives me anything more than a few coins to spend." "Enough. Stop your whining, Finn, before Thomas smacks it out of you," Sean warns. "My hands are too cold to move, let alone smack you. I forgot my gloves in the woods." "What am I going to do with you, Thomas? That's the third time this week." Our conversation comes to a halt as we reach the town square, and Sean shakes my hand by way of goodbye, for he won't see me until I slide down the roof tomorrow, and he pulls me out of the lake. Finn walks away, without a backward glance, into the row of houses. I won't see him until the mob scene tomorrow. He doesn't like goodbyes, for we see each other every day, like clockwork. Sean and I head our separate ways, me to the Bellaros stable, and him to his father's blacksmith shop. The wind tries to blow me backwards, as if telling me to stay away from the stables. Except, I can't shirk my work, because what little coin I get, I live on. If I don't muck out the stalls or forget to polish the tack, Cecily would understand, but I'm more worried about what John might do if I don't. I grunt with the effort of opening the stable door, a solid, thick oak, and smile in spite of myself as the half dozen horses tell me hello, some quicker than others. They know who truly takes care of them. "Be patient. You'll get your dinner soon enough." I haul out a bag of oats from a storage room, and measure out a variety of amounts; each horse gets it’s own ratio of oats to hay. It's been a hard day for them, and I wouod venture that Cecily would like them to have a treat. The hay I fork into their mangers disappears sooner than I'd like it to, but I don't give them extra, no matter how much they butt their heads against me when I break the film of ice over the water bucket, and fill their respective ones. "Shouldn't you be asleep?" I turn from Shadow's stall, and reply, "Shouldn't you be? It's been quite a day." Cecily smiles as she pushes back her cloak, and shakes the snow off her dress. The lamplight casts a golden glow over her, and the discarded snow on the floorboards glimmers. "It's not out of the ordinary for me to be up this late. Besides, I had other things on my mind. I need to give you your week's pay, since my father and sisters don't remember we have help outside the house." "It could have waited until tomorrow." I turn back to Shadow as she pushes me with her nose, and stroke her until she calms down again. Cecily comes up beside me, and leans on the adjacent empty stall door. "I doubt it could. You pay Maurice tomorrow, for example." "And how, exactly, do you know that?" I raise an eyebrow, and Shadow huffs at me. She smiles. "Every week it's the same. Everything's always the same, in Grimmdale." "Not everything." I lean over, shoulder the sack of oats by my feet, push open the storage room door, and drop it onto the dark floor. When I turn around, Cecily is there, a small bag in her hand. "Your pay." She holds it out to me, her face in shadow. The lamplight doesn't shine here, and I find myself backing up a step. "That's not my pay. It looks like a small fortune, Cecily. I won't take it." "You can, and you will, Thomas. I'd rather you take it, and buy a new cloak, or a solid pair of boots, than have father waste it in another unprosperous deal with another scoundrel of a merchant. My sisters would just splurge on more pearls or another dress that they won't wear. And me-" she scoffs, "-I have more than enough to fulfill my needs." She steps back, one step, two, three, until she reaches the light again. "Please, Thomas. Take it." I clear the doorway, and, hesitating to reply, pull the door closed behind me. My heart is telling me it’s not right. I shake my head. "No, Cecily. I'll take my pay, my normal amount, but not anything more. It wouldn't be right." "Why wouldn't it?" I don't answer. "Why not, Thomas? Why won't you accept this?" She throws up her hands, irritated. "Cecily-" "Here." She thrusts the bag into my hands, turns, and, picking up her skirts, runs out of the stable. The door bangs behind her in the wind. "Cecily! Stop!" I run after her, almost running into the massive wooden door, but slide to a stop in the snow just outside. She's reached the end of the row of houses, and I stop myself from running after her. It would be wrong to chase after her, even if she is my friend, for I don’t know who's watching. At least, as much as an employer and employee can be friends. I look down at the coins, heavy in my hands, and force myself to swallow. An uneasy feeling rises in the pit of my stomach, and I walk back inside, to finish up for the night. I extinguish two of the lamps, and pull myself up the ladder to the partially enclosed loft, my boots futilely attempting to climb on the empty air from several missing rungs. My wounds throb sharply, reminding me that I've neglected them. I grimace into the dark. I fumble to light the single candle on the table, missing the wick because I can't see. It takes three matches, and I shake my hand as my fingertips get slightly burned. I roll up my sleeves, and wince as my fingers probe the deep scratch on one of my forearms, causing it to start bleeding again. My common sense halts me before I start walking to my dresser. Before I can wash it, I need bandages to dress the wounds. I flip open the lid of my trunk, and scavenge around for the bandages in the corner. My fingers bump into my mother's box, and I pause, desperately wanting to draw it out after the day I've had. A ghostly scent of lavender fills the air, and I can almost convince myself I smell it, even though it’s only in memory. I shake my head at myself, wondering why I even thought about taking it out. Only if I need to remind myself of what I live for do I bring it out from under the other things nestled on top of it. I resume looking for the bandages, and find them under a threadbare blanket. I get them out, and as gently as I can, shut the lid. The old floorboards groan under my feet as I cross to the small dresser, where I set down the bandages and the candle before breaking the film over my basin of water. I dip a clean rag into it, shiver as I dab at my forearm with the icy water, and attempt to keep the blood from dripping off my elbow into the basin. I wrap the arm, clean a knee and the other arm, and secure the ends of the bandages. Hopefully, they will stay on, no matter how threadbare and worn from reuse. If not, it means I have to wash the cloth and slide down the roof without any protection tomorrow while they dry. A draft blows through the room, ruffling my hair slightly, and sending a chill down my spine. Strange. I thought I had shut the doors on the main floor before I came up. I walk to the door, sticking my head out to see the doors down below. In the shadows, I can't make out the dim figure slowly crossing the barn floor, but they had enough sense to shut the door behind them. I creep back to the dresser, watching for the creaky boards, and take the dagger I have setting on top, next to the pitcher and basin. I crouch down, my knees protesting, and make my way to the edge of the open part of the loft, a warning bell chiming in the back of my mind. I clutch the dagger, and glance over the edge. A creak. The floorboards. Almost under me, and to my left. I move to the top of the ladder, and peer down. The single lamp I kept burning doesn't cast any light on whoever's at the bottom, and the rungs of the ladder grow darker as someone grabs hold. "Who's there?" I rise to my feet as I wait for an answer, and force myself to stand still. The floor creaking under me would not help me now, only give away my position, if my voice hasn’t already. "It's only me, Thomas. Don't fall down the ladder."

<<<>>> The tension leave my shoulders as I recognize the voice. "Did you have to sneak in here without any warning? I could have killed you." Cecily reaches the top of the ladder, and I politely extend a hand to help her stand. "I thought you might be asleep, Thomas. I-I just couldn't leave things as they were between us, and came to apologize. Forgive me, please." "Always." She spots the knife in my other hand. I fruitily move it behind my back, but she shakes her head, and I let my arm drop to my side. "Thomas, really!" "You can never be too careful. Especially when people sneak into barns at night." "Point taken." She takes a moment to look at me, at my rolled up sleeves, one trouser leg up past my knee, and the bandages plainly in sight on my arms. "Did you get injured? How? Where?" She grabs my wrist, and I pull back, but she doesn't let go. "This is from the roof, isn't it? I told James to fix that edge!" "I'm all right, truly, Cecily." I attempt to pull away again, and she lets me go. "I've got to clean this up before I bleed all over the floor. Will you come in?" She follows me back into my room, and I resume cleaning my knee. She stops me, and after a minute of holding on, she tugs the cloth from my hand. "Let me finish, Cecily." I move to stand, and she tries to stop me. "Please, let me do it for you. I know you are perfectly capable of doing so, but I want to do this. Stop!" I sit back down, and she lays a hand on my knee to keep it still. I bite my lip as she briskly cleans the wound out, for this one is deeper than the rest, but quickly stop as she looks up at me, her eyes pinpointing on my face. Maybe she didn't see. I look away, and she lightly hits my leg, in jest. "Don't pretend you didn't bite your lip. I saw. I know it hurts, and I'm sorry for it. It's partially my fault, after all. Maybe we can get someone to push that detailing back before you get to the castle tomorrow. Heaven knows James won’t do anything about it, but I'll pass it on to the staff." She tightly wraps my knee, and gently pulls my trousers back down, thoughtfully fingering the worn, ragged hem. I grab her hands before she can roll down my sleeves. That much I can do myself.I make her look at me. "Why did you run away from me today?" "Why did you tend to the horses before yourself?" I don't answer, and neither does she. "You ate at the tavern, correct?" "Aye. Abigail had our stew waiting for us. She never forgets." Cecily draws away, and places the rest of my bandages on my dresser. She turns around, and leans back against the dresser. "That's-that's brilliant, eating at the tavern. At least you don't have to sit at a table with James because he insists your entire family dines with his as a group. James eats enough for three at supper, and I can barely watch as he shoves bite after bite into his mouth, heedless of the crumbs that fall. It's not pretty." She laughs halfheartedly as I stand up, and carefully unroll my sleeves. "That's James. He eats enough for a beast, a man, and me all at once." She laughs once again, and this time, it's genuine. "You always do know what to say. I wish-" she stops, and I motion for her to keep going. "A few times, I just wish, that you could switch roles with James. He's got the easier one, that's for certain. If he could just experience what you have to go through-" "Don't ever say that. We've had our roles assigned to us since-" "Since before you can remember. I know. But if it could happen, James might see why he should respect you, instead of-" "No. He will never see me as his equal. Never." I wince as Cecily grabs my elbows, a fierce look in her eye. "Why not?" "It isn't meant to be, Cecily. He's a prince, both in and out of the story. I'm a pauper, whether you like it or not." She grips my elbows harder, and against my will my eyes start to tear up from the pain. "That doesn't mean you can't be friends." "That's pushing the line." "That doesn't mean you can't be acquaintances." "He hates me. I wouldn't call that an acquaintance." "He doesn't hate you!" "Really? I beg to differ. We're already enemies for life. " "Thomas! He doesn't hate you! I think he's jealous, plain and simple! There, I said it!" I wrench away, her grip becoming too much for me to handle. "Why would James be jealous of me? He's got everything he could ever want for: he's a merchant's son, a merchant himself, and he gets to keep the heroine he rescues from me every day!" She raises her eyebrows, her eyes bright."Do you want to know what I think of James, Thomas?” I nod, and slide a step forward, wary that she’ll grab my arms again. “Yes. Yes, I certainly do.” Her words grow sharp, and she’s almost spitting by the time she’s finished berating him. “He's annoying, and shallow, and majorly self absorbed! I tolerate him during the story, but afterwards, he's insufferable. He needs to stop looking at himself in the mirror and thinking he isn't flawed. It's utterly unbelievable that-" "Stop, please, Cecily. Stop. You're making my head hurt with all of this-this chatter of yours." I rub my eyes, and wearily reopen them. To her credit, she closes her mouth, pressing her lips together so tight I think she might not ever utter another word. She sighs, and as I reach up to unclasp my cloak, she darts forward and hugs me, her arms tightly surrounding me. "I'm not sure I can breathe, Cecily." She laughs, and I hesitantly chuckle a few seconds later. "You're too thin." "Leave off me for a minute. What about you? How are you faring? You don't want your money back? It's right there, on the table." "Keep it. I told you before I don't need it, and neither does my family. I was upset earlier because you had this, this look on your face, like you wouldn't take the money even if I had fired you right on the spot. It got me thinking about how you don't take charity, as many of us don't in this town. We work it off if we have a debt owed, until we pay it." "Does this never end?" I jokingly roll my eyes. "Ah, it will. Hear me out. “Thomas, you worry about everyone but yourself. I've been on the receiving end of that, as has Sean and Finn. Don't deny it. Even if both you and they won't admit to it, you help each other. You can't tell me that all of it doesn't go both ways." She gives me another tight hug, and steps away. "At the end of the day, I fall into bed, thinking, 'Whoever put us here, performing this day after day, must have a reason.' I haven't quite figured it out yet, but I promise you, when I do, you'll be the first to know." "I think you, of all people, will figure it out." I smile, and a glint comes into her eye. "Even though I love it when you smile, you look exhausted. I hope you sleep tonight, Thomas." She shakes her head as I shake mine, her in empathy, me in denial. "Cecily, don't worry about me. I'll be fine." "We'll see about that. Don't forget, Thomas, that at the end of the story, it's I who saves James. However he may think he saves me, I save myself. Keep that in mind, tomorrow, while we’re in the village at the end of the story." I allow a moment of silence to hang between us, for I don't know how to respond to that. "Would you like me to walk you home?" "I think I will pass, but thank you for the kind offer. I can take care of myself. I got here safely, didn't I?" She tugs on her gloves, and I walk with her to the ladder. "Good night." "I'll see you in the village." She climbs down, thumping the ladder so I know she's reached the floor, and leaves, the icy gust of wind that blows through extinguishing my candle for me. I fall into my bed, and pull the threadbare blankets up, falling asleep after another hour of staring at the ceiling, thinking things over and rubbing my arm.

<<<>>>The tug, the pull, wakes me up far sooner than I'd like it to. I grumble to myself, and swing out of bed, pushing my feet farther into my boots. I slept fully clothed, and I take the time I'd normally spend switching clothes to stretch my arms above my head, waking my muscles up. I stop as the story pulls me towards the ladder. I painfully climb down, harnessing John's horse and double checking the girths before leading it out of the barn. In the brisk morning air, I lead the horse on foot to John's house, and tether him to the hitching post set outside. I catch motion out of the corner of my eye, and turn to see Cecily framed in her bedroom window. She smiles when she sees I've looked up, and waves to me. I wave back, shaking my head all the while as I look away. She shouldn't be up for two more hours, at the least. I trudge alone through the streets, my feet crunching through leftover snow from the previous day. They're quite empty, except for a few weary faces greeting the dawn with me. I leave the village behind, and start navigating the woods, the mostly dead undergrowth forcing me to kick through a great deal of it to reach the bigger trees, which have more space between them. The pull of the story breaks away from me, and I stop in the middle of two thick trunks. The sunlight falls lazily through the trees, most of them missing their leaves, which are buried under the snow I'm standing on. I draw in a deep breath, and it tickles my nose. My breath spirals away from me in a cloud of white. I take a few more, and I continue to the clearing I leave my bow and arrows in. Though I discard them inside the castle, they somehow appear here every morn. For some reason, my gloves don't follow suit. When I forget them, I have to wait until the next day to fetch them again, and my red, chapped hands pay for it. I find my gloves right where I left them: next to the hollow oak with my bow and quiver. I gratefully pull them on, and reach for my quiver, sliding the strap over my shoulder, and the bow over my opposite. I pull an old blanket out of the tree, and dust off the dirt under the oak. I settle in to wait until the story calls for me again. From what Sean and Finn have hinted at, I can guess that there was more to our story before...what happens every day. Apparently, there was two more days worth of the story, instead of the one day we are all stuck repeating. Except I can't remember any of it. For the life of me, I can't remember any detail of it. I've tried, lost many valuable hours of sleep over it, but I can't remember. I shiver as I lean up against the tree, and stare at the grey sky above, interrupted by a few darker clouds. A prelude to the rain that's to come. When it starts pouring down, it's all I can do to stay in character and rally the townspeople. If I didn't have the story guiding me with what to say, I'd tell them all to go home and get dry. I doze on and off, the river of sleep pulling me under more than I'd like it to, until it's almost dusk. The story is preparing to pull me through the woods, back to the village, and on to the castle. I stand, my back and legs aching, and store the blanket in the oak. The clouds have drawn together, dark and menacing, into a blanket. I stretch - just in time, for the guiding tug is back, and has a deep hold on me. I start to jog, silently hating every jarring step. My knees are already killing me. I dodge a few fallen trees, and leap over a dry stream bed, crashing into the foliage on the other side. The snow has soaked my trousers from the knee down, and my feet are numb, except for the tingles from slamming each foot down as I speed up into a run. The wavering gold of torches from the village flash through the trees, and I turn, making my way towards them. The tug doesn't subside as I draw closer. I frown as the sun leaves, dipping beneath the horizon. The temperature starts to drop. I lean over my knees, panting, as the pull of the story releases me, for I can't start until everyone required is here. I push through the crowd gathered in the square, and attempt to catch my breath. I'm silently thanking whoever is trying to tarry, or were farther away than the story wanted them to be when it called. I scan the crowd, acknowledging Finn with a brief nod, and realize who is missing. Cecily. John Bellaros is impatiently tapping his toe, standing next to his horse. It huffs, as impatient as his master at the moment. I pace in the center of the square. I hope nothing has happened, to her or anyone else. I force myself to stop pacing, and I rub my hands together, grateful for my gloves tonight. At the edge of the crowd, people start to move, and Cecily pushes through, to stand in her place beside her father. The story clutches me again, and I accuse her of falling in love with the beast, all the while scaring the villagers with a tale so grim, so dark, I almost get lost in the words. I'm supposed to be angry, but the feeling isn't right. It doesn't settle into my bones- it just stays as a veil over my features, contorting my face and body. I act empathetic, and fearful along with the villagers. Emotions that I don't feel, but am supposed to project nonetheless, with or without the story's help. Thunder rumbles overhead, vibrating inside of me. The first drops land on the stone under my feet. It steadily increases into a drizzle, then a downpour. With icy drops stinging my face, I rally the townspeople into a mass, and start toward the castle, detouring into the woods to make battering rams. I borrow an axe from a willing hand, and the story forces me to almost single-handedly chop down a massive oak, only pausing when another two step in and finish the job. I wipe my forehead, and return the axe to its owner before bellowing that we have to kill the beast, before he kills us. The rain has already soaked me to the skin, and I shiver, despite all of the physical action. I cough, and gasp to get my breath back as my heart pounds. Finn comes up behind me, and drags me over to a tree trunk, lining up next to me as a group of us lift it. If he didn't take the initiative by pulling me over next to him, he and I would be seperated by the story. Finn doesn't like when it happens as such, and, because of his actions, it rarely does. My knees ache and my forearms burn as I help carry the trunk, soon to become a battering ram. My group leads the charge up the hill, to the thick, tall wrought iron and steel gates. The lock gives way after half a dozen blows. I peer up to the lighted windows set in the dark, grim stone, the rain distorting it into a towering shadow; The front doors open, revealing invisible spirits carrying anything and everything they can use as a weapon. The doors slam shut behind the spirits with an ominous clang. As the villagers set down our tree trunk, I pull out my bow, nocking my first arrow. Somehow, I'm at the front of the townspeople, and I take in a steadying breath before bringing the bow up, and drawing back the shaft. As the villagers fan out behind me, only one tree trunk still aloft, the servants fan out to defend their castle. The invisible voices cry out, and we match them in clamour as I aim and shoot my arrow, knocking one to the ground. I am worried every day that the people I hit may never rise again, but everyone is whole, uninjured by my arrows, after the story ends. The villagers push forward, and I follow Finn through the fray, drawing and releasing in one breath as another servant tries to throw Finn over my head. "Thanks," he tosses over his shoulder. "Don't thank me yet. Look out!" He turns back around, narrowly missing the glittering sword blade sweeping down at his head. He parries, and yells for me to go around him, so the battle can end. The moment my boots touch the stone steps, the battle ends, the story continues, and the servants fade into the castle to let the villagers advance. But for every step I take, I'm forced back one to give myself room to shoot, and another to avoid the servant's makeshift weapon. Behind Finn once more, together we attempt to clear a path to the doors. It's mostly clear in a few rare sequential moments, and he looks at me, as if saying You aren’t going to get a better opportunity. I slide my bow into my half empty quiver, and pull out my dagger. I dart from one empty space to another, kicking away a hand at my ankle, and use the pommel of my dagger to knock someone out of my way. I sense more than see someone barreling toward me from the left, intent on taking me down. I leap, and as they collide with my legs, I strain with the rest of my body to get my fingers to touch the steps. My fingertips scrape the stone, and a second later, the weight lifts off of my legs. I exhale, and push myself up, a few drops of blood dripping from my chin down onto the steps. I grazed it, I suspect. Finn lays a steady hand on my shoulder, and pulls me up. "Ready for what comes next?" "No. Not even close. I'll see you at the tavern?" "Aye. And this time, I won't take your bread." I grin, but quickly stop as my chin pulses and stings. "You didn't take it. I gave it." "Either way, it's yours. Lead on." I climb the steps, and let the battering ram through. It takes several solid thumps to break the doors open, and the story compels me to order the rest to leave the beast to me. I gaze up at the ornate, but gloomy, ceiling, and wonder what type of mood I'll catch James in today. I catch hold of one of the waist high banisters, and vault over it onto the stairs. My wet boots sink into the carpet. I grimace at the feeling, and take the stairs at a run. As I climb two more flights, and run down a hallway, I take off my quiver, pulling out a single arrow and my bow from the mix. It's all the story requires for me to carry, other than my dagger thrust in my belt, and I'm thankful for the minimal weight. I clutch them in one hand, and the quiver strap with the other as I use my shoulder to break through a set of double doors. I cough, my throat now sore, and have to pause to catch my breath before continuing. I locate the first of my two last staircases, and start to climb. Halfway up, the steps lose the carpeting, and I press my weight down harder on my toes to keep myself from slipping on the worn stone. My breath comes in short gasps-although I climb the multitude of stairs every day, I'm still not accustomed to it. I reach the final flight, where I ditch my quiver, and prepare to be thoroughly soaked once more. The door to the roof is now the only thing in my way. I lay a palm against the wooden door, then yank it open to meet the beast.

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Hey there! We are Little Lion and Little Snake, which are nicknames we gave each other based on our Harry Potter houses! We hope you enjoy our works, and leave us a comment or two to let us know what you did (or didn't) like about them!Head over to "Meet The Authors" to read more about Scarlet Tea and Silver Ink's founders